


The Study of Wardens

by BOIgeorge



Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Multi, possible triggering in some chapters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-06-05
Updated: 2012-06-04
Packaged: 2017-11-06 21:46:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/423608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BOIgeorge/pseuds/BOIgeorge
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Whereupon all Wardens are given personalities that I abuse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Watching You Watching Him

This is me attempting to get a grasp on the characters.

If I may introduce Sulwen Amell and Trava Surana. Yes, these are both real names, it took me hours of beating my skull against the walls of baby-namedom.

All characters within are property of BioWare, any entertainment I get out of them earns me no money, nor fame beyond: "Oh good flaming, bleeding scotsman; that woman is a disgrace to our species, she should be dealt with." Followed by tomatoes and fish-guts flung at my head. Still hungry? Thought not.

Not beta'd, suggestions and corrections are welcome.

* * *

Watching You Watching Him

Sulwen heaved a melodramatic sigh, the likes of which are only achieved by young women in love. "He's _so_ handsome," she breathed.

Trava glanced through his forelock from his learning text, "Wh-o?" He asked in his halting way. Jowan beside him rolled his eyes in masculine disgust.

"Who do you think, silly?" She grinned at her younger elven friend, sending his heart soaring.

Jowan snorted, "Anders?" He asked, flipping idly through a chapter he should have been reading.

"No, you daft goose," she snapped. "I'm talking about Ser Cullen; just look at him." She was back to staring dreamily at the young man. "He looks so dashing in his armor."

Jowan was attempting not to choke on his own spit. "Are you mental? He's a Templar!"

"It's forbidden," Trava added, shivering in his over-sized robes, wide-eyed with horror. Jowan flinched and coughed a bit before he continued.

"He's a Templar, Sully; he'd never even consider getting together with an apprentice mage." He busied himself with shuffling papers, as if he considered the matter settled.

Sulwen cast an indignant eye over her two friends. "Of course, I know that. I'm not an imbecile." She barely allowed them a moments relief before she was off again. "That's why I'm waiting until my Harrowing to pursue him."

Trava squeaked and pulled himself further into his robes, as if he would disappear from this madness if he just went far enough in.

"How is that going to make it any better?" Jowan whisper-shrieked. "Instead of being an apprentice mage, you'll be a full-fledged mage!"

"Exactly," she said, completely satisfied with her train of logic. "Once I've gone through my Harrowing, I'll be a better prospect."

"A better target, more like!" Jowan hissed.

She ignored him. "I'll have proven that I'm strong enough to control my magic. It's perfect!"

"Ah-uhm," Trava stuttered, clutching the cloth covering his knees and not meeting her eyes. "What if he doesn't like you back?"

She folded her arms across her chest and set her mouth in a mulish pout. "He does. You might not see it yet, but he does. Besides," here she smiled in a satisfied manner that was all too female. "Doris said she saw him staring at my hips the other day. He dropped his sword, too."

"Oh," Trava murmured, before he dropped his gaze to the runes diagrammed in his book, fighting back dismal tears. Jowan dropped his hand to his shoulder in sympathy, but Sulwen didn't notice. She was back to making eyes at Cullen.

* * *

And that's that, until the next few minutes. Aren't I just a busy bee?


	2. Two For Flinching

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Possible triggering, and Alistair being puzzled.

Number TWO! Be prepared for a quick about face in the tone set previously.

This is Kara Tabris. Now, I realize that some are going to ask me, "Basil, why didn't you just keep the default names?" Answer being, "because I thought they sounded slightly daft."

Hem; now, because I'm a forgetful sort, I neglected to thank someone who is very important in this area of fandom. Thank you, Hatsepsut, for reading over these two shots at literature, and then giving me your opinion. Hopefully it's really what you think, and not you being a sweetheart, which I know you are. Prosperity and longevity be yours.

All disclaimers and invitations previously stated apply.

* * *

Two for Flinching

Kara stood still and silent, staring off into nothing; her fellow Wardens and other traveling companions were gathering themselves from their latest skirmish with a stray band of Darkspawn. She herself had already dried her blades, and was lost in her own memories. Her eyes closed against the voices of her fellow elves as they begged for mercy and a savior. She flinched away from the image, burned into her retinas, of her husband struck down by a sneering noble-mans brat. Bawdy laughter, tearing hands, gripping hands; on her thighs, on her shoulder-

"Kara?"

It was only Alistair's quickened reflexes and his armor that saved his hand from departure. She yowled like a cat on fire, and executed a quick spinning draw, her knives sparking off of his plate. Alistair stumbled back, dumbfounded by her bared teeth and animal snarl. Everyone stopped what they were doing and stared at the scene. "What was that?" He shouted, clutching his hand to his chest.

Kara shifted backwards, away from the perceived threat. "What do you want?" She demanded. After a moment of the young man just watching her like a caged beast, she shrieked at him: " _What!_ "

Alistair flinched back, before answering in the breathless tone of one caught off guard. "I was just checking on you, to see if you were all right." He seemed to pull himself together, drawing himself up. "Why'd you try to stab me, I didn't even hurt you!"

She closed herself off against another rush of fear-tainted memories with a full-bodied shudder, and carefully put her weapons away. Everyone watched as she focused herself, her eyes dark with secrets and pain. "Don't touch me," she whispered. " _Never_ touch me."

She whirled on her heel and marched on.

* * *

So short, so dark. Thoughts, ideas?


	3. Word To Your Maker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morrigan is slightly OOC. I like to think she's relaxing a bit.

I'm going to say, right off the bat, I don't like this.

Hello, Inir Cousland. What I've churned out is the result of trying to write a deep and thoughtful character, and realizing that you've written a whiny twit with a bad case of the poor me's.

Previous disclaimers apply.

* * *

Word to You Maker

Inir was praying again.

It was something that he did whenever they made camp; even more so when they were within range of a Chantry. He would kneel in isolation, hands clasped to his forehead and eyes clenched shut against the inevitable tears. How could he have been so foolish, after all? If he'd only been a little more wary, if he'd kept a closer eye on Arl Howe and his sallow-skinned men with their staring eyes and leering grins, none of this would have happened. His father and mother would be alive. His brother's wife and child would live, and Fergus wouldn't be missing. Inir, himself wouldn't have had to become a Grey Warden in a desperate bid for vengeance. They might have won the battle at Ostagar, had that twice-damned Howe not betrayed his oldest friend!

"If you hadn't been betrayed," he stiffened against the scornful voice of their resident Apostate. Morrigan sat next to him, lounging in her way. "Even if you hadn't become a Warden, if you hadn't lost your family, Loghain would have still turned on the king. Your father would more than likely have died at the hands of Darkspawn, and very little would have changed."

He huffed and glared at her cold features. "What does this have to do with you?" He demanded. "It is none of your business." He nearly bared his teeth at her in frustration when she rolled her shoulders nonchalantly.

"You're right," she said. "It's nothing to do with me, at all. Except that I'm sick of seeing you indulge in your little 'pity-party'. It's truly pathetic." She had the gall to smirk when he snarled and leapt off of the bench, but didn't leave. He only paced around the small enclosure like a caged cat, waving his arms occasionally.

"How dare you." He held himself back from the brink of shouting, for fear of evoking the wrath of the chantry priestess'. "How _dare_ you! You have no idea what I've been through, no idea what I saw. I watched as my father bled on the floor of our kitchen larder, then had to leave both him and my mother behind. All because of one man, and my own blind trust!" He ran his fingers through his hair, dismantling his short tail. He looked nearly manic when he faced her again. "I saw the corpses of my brothers wife and son. He was barely on his eighth summer! They died because I was too stupid to see the trickery in his eyes." He leaned back against the cold stone wall, and practically deflated. "I failed them all."

"So, what?" His head flew up, rage in his eyes; but she'd already continued, and he could say nothing. "They died. It's done. It's also rather ridiculous that you haven't noticed how many more lives have been saved by your actions."

Inir stared for a moment, before Morrigan huffed in irritation and gestured out the enclave opening. "There; your proof is right there, imbecile." He glowered a bit at the insult, but looked anyway.

He didn't really see what she was talking about. He shook his head and turned away, only to see her standing at his side. "Look again, fool. Do you see those people?" He followed her hand, and saw them all. He saw the adults mingling and praying, the children giggling in groups ranging in size. "All of them are alive because of you. Well, us." She preened a little, then seemed to catch herself, and scowled. "Mostly you, and your selfless decisions. If you hadn't gone through all of that, they might have died as well." She watched them all for a moment, before she turned back to her companion. He was staring again, dumbfounded. He almost looked like Alistair; and wasn't that just irritating.

"Well then, if you'll excuse me; I've a tome to read, and precious little time for myself." She sauntered off, then, leaving Inir to his own devices.

He was still for a moment longer, before he turned back to the candle-lit altar. He knelt, and clasped his hands to his forehead. "Blessed be the prophetess, purified by flame. Thank you, for this chance to prove myself."

The maker works in mysterious ways, indeed.

* * *

Yeah, don't like it. Review anyway?


	4. Just Right

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Having your life handed to you, versus making your own way.

Short, but sweet.

Aleyda Aeducan, ladies (and gentlemen?)

Previous disclaimers apply.

* * *

Just Right _  
_

_You wouldn't understand._

Back when she'd been a noble, her second had asked her why she didn't want to wear the ceremonial armor; crafted by the finest smith's, and handed down to her by her grandmother. She'd said that he wouldn't understand, and he probably wouldn't have.

After all, she didn't understand it, herself.

There was something about that armor, older than herself. It chafed slightly, more on her nerves than by fitting wrong. Even so, she would not have been able to tell you why.

Until she saw it.

The perfect armor.

It was battered, sturdy and serviceable rather than strong and noble; and it was perfect.

She spent every last sovereign she had to get the set, and still had to sell some surplus items. (she gladly let go of a dagger with shiny gold trim) When she finally put it on, it was like magic, or as close to magic as a dwarf could ever get. Leather straps tightened, she hefted her maul, and smiled.

"I'm ready," she said to Leliana. "Let's head out."

"Are you certain?" She was asked. "It's rather…ah…"

Aleyda shrugged. "I know," she said. "But it's mine."

She stopped trying to figure out what she'd hated about her grandmothers armor.

* * *

It's odd, this one came out a lot easier than Inir. Maybe Aleyda isn't quite so annoying? Or perhaps she's a simple soul. Ah, well. Review, please!


	5. Quid Pro Quo, Neci

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zevran.

Good flaming tater tots of doom, I shouldn't be awake. It's nearly four in the morning, and I've an interview tomorrow. I see coffee in my future.

Greetings, to Neci Mahariel; the Curious George of the Dales. Granted, with less breaking things and more questions. Many, many questions.

Previous disclaimers and invitations apply. I also invite you to pelt me with other invasive and possibly embarrassing questions that he can ask. Again, thanks to Hatsepsut for her support; you may be Queen of Smut, but you're still a sweetheart. So there.

* * *

Quid Pro Quo, Neci...

"What's it like to be a Golem?"

"What does it mean to be of the Qun? What does Qun even _mean_?"

"Was it terribly lonely, living with only your mother?"

"What's it like living underground?"

"Where you really a Templar?"

"How old _are_ you, really?"

"What's that?"

"Why do they call it a Circle, and not a Square?"

"Why are you called 'Shale' if you're made up of granite?"

"What's it like to be a spider?" (this question nearly ended in disaster)

"Have you always liked men?"

Zevran blinked and looked over at the springy elf. "I beg your pardon?"

Neci flushed and waved his hands before him as if to ward off potential attacks. "I just wondered, since you seem to flirt with Alistair a lot." He averted his eyes, easily side-stepping a thorny bush. "Am I making a fool of myself? I'm sorry, I didn't mean to offend."

He nearly laughed at the cowed youth. Out of all the invasive questions asked of all their companions, he would choose this one to be embarrassed by. "My dear Warden, you need never fear that I will be offended." Not necessarily true, but what can you do? "An interesting question. In Antiva, especially so for the Crows, we are slightly more _liberal_ with our affections. Is it not the same for the Dalish?"

It almost seemed as if his head would spin off, he shook it so fast. "No, every one of us belongs to our clan as a whole; everything in us goes towards the revival of Arlathan." As he spoke, Neci made wide gestures, seeming to encompass everything around him. It never ceased to impress Zevran how the young elf would look at everything except where he was going, and still be as graceful as the Halla his people would herd. "I've never heard of any man liking other men, it's a very new concept. Is it very different from being with a woman?"

A slow smile spread across Zevran's face like oil on a lovers skin. "Ah, Warden; it is impossible to simply describe the pleasures of being with a man." He slid his gaze over to hover over his Dalish brethren. "It would be simpler to…" During this small interim, he'd been carefully herding Neci closer and closer to the edge of the path; now he took his chance and trapped him against a tree, one arm on either side of a slim waist. "It would be simpler only to demonstrate," he said, breathing the shared air between the two.

Neci blinked a bit, a blush creeping over his ears, (how delightful, Zevran thought) before he brightened with understanding. "Oh, of course!" He exclaimed, clapping his hands together. "I'll just go get Alistair, and you can show me!"

Zevran's mind and libido stuttered to a halt. "What?"

"Great idea, Zevran."

"N-no, I'm-"

"I'll be just a moment; Alistair, wait a bit. I need your help with something."

"I don't think you understood me, if you would just hold still-"

"Ye~s?"

"Zevran was going to show me something, and I need your help."

"Ordinarily I wouldn't be against this, but-"

"Ask away."

"Braska."

* * *

Who does cliche? _I_ does cliche. Also bad grammar.


End file.
